Legitimate Target

by Dee McInnes

  “I’ve never talked to anyone about this, except my counsellor. The detectives asked questions at the time, I can’t remember exactly what I told them.” Tania paused. “It’s a bit of a blur. I’m not sure what was real and what was my mind playing tricks. My head was turned.”

  “It would really help people to understand your side of the story. Help to put the record straight,” Viv said. “Tell me how you felt, any recollections, no matter how vague they may seem.”

  “I understand,” Tania said, her fingernail busy again.

  Viv glanced at her Breitling and watched the second hand. Counted to ten.

  “I didn’t know Doctor Haslett had arranged to meet Chris,” Tania said. “That’s the first thing I would like to make absolutely clear. Mitch was in bed by the time Chris went out. In the morning, after breakfast, I began to worry about where Chris could be.”

  “And what about the night before. How did you spend the evening?” Viv asked.

  “I wouldn’t have done much,” Tania said. “Maybe watched television, drank a glass of wine. My memory’s hazy. I can’t remember how I felt last week, never mind all those years ago.”

  “And no-one came to visit you, or called at your house? Would you have ordered a takeaway, some food?” Viv said, thinking of Pete’s theory.

  “N-o.” Tania sounded hesitant.

  “Think very carefully, please.”

  “I’m bitterly ashamed,” Tania said. “For getting sucked in, for being… so weak. I wish things had been different. Chris would still be here, and I wouldn’t be stuck in this… nightmare,” her voice trailed off. Tears ran down her face.

  A man jogged past the bench. There was the sound of traffic on the nearby streets. A dog barked. Viv couldn’t allow herself to be blindsided again. She had to maintain a professional distance. “We have it on good authority, that sometime after ten pm on Saturday the eighteenth of May, after dark, a car was seen driving away from your house. How can you explain that?”

  “I’m not sure,” Tania sniffed, dabbing her eyes with the tissue.

  Viv’s phone vibrated, but she ignored it. She wasn’t letting Tania off the hook, until she had a satisfactory explanation. She laid her hand on Tania’s sleeve. “Tania. Please. It’s time to tell the truth as best you can. Steven Haslett’s dead now. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

  “That’s what you think. He always liked to be in control, of everything,” Tania said, her voice shaky.

  Viv held her breath and allowed the silence to stretch.

  “It seemed so… harmless at first, something to help me relax, instead of drinking alcohol especially when I had to drive home after work. Then, after it took hold and I became powerless to stop. At the time…” her words trailed off and Tania stared at the ground.

  “At the time of your affair?”

  Tania began picking the edge of her sleeve. “It was exhilarating. I was on top of the world whenever I was with him. But it was just part of the addiction. His… orchestration. The fantasy,” she mumbled. “Afterwards, I heard from another member of staff that he had done the same thing before. Once Doctor Haslett had what he wanted, he moved on to his next… victim. I left my job at the hospital, not long after Chris died. I wasn’t fit for work. Naturally it’s something the hospital kept quiet, but his sister, Rhona, must have known.”

  “What exactly were you addicted to?” Viv asked.

  Tania lifted her head as if it was a lead weight. Her eyes were red-rimmed, dark circles visible underneath, despite the careful make-up. “The euphoria. Valium, Codeine, Reds. They calmed my anxiety, but there were side effects, especially when I drank alcohol. A heightened sense of smell, voices. Delusions. Everything became so muddled. I have…I have a vague memory of driving the van. Walking home. But I can’t be a hundred percent sure.”

  This wasn’t the answer Viv was expecting. She checked that her phone was still recording. “You drove the van? When?” Something clicked at the back of her mind. She wasn’t sure what.

  “The night Chris… died. I think. Please. You mustn’t tell Mitch. Don’t tell anyone. No-one can beat me up more than I’ve already done to myself. I told you. I’m weak - I’m totally pathetic.” Tania buried her head in her hands and sobbed, her shoulders shaking.

  Sleep-driving. Viv remembered reading about the effects of the drug that Chris McVeigh had ingested. If Tania had been behind the wheel when the Lockdown Security van was captured on CCTV, Doctor Haslett had been lying and Tania was part of the conspiracy, consciously or otherwise. The Homicide Act allowed for a plea of voluntary manslaughter, if it could be proven that the defendant was suffering from an abnormality of mind. Viv remembered that recognised medical conditions such as drug addiction could be used to support cases of diminished responsibility, if the defendant could be deemed incapable of forming a rational judgement.

  Viv fingered the scar above her eye. Her attacker, Geraldine Maguire, got off with a suspended sentence after her brief convinced the judge that Geraldine had been suffering from battered woman syndrome, and the attack on Viv had not been premeditated.

  “Let me get this straight,” Viv said, staring straight at Tania. “YOU drove your husband’s van to the unit. So, where was he at the time?”

  “For a long time, I managed to convince myself it had never happened…he was at home, in bed. I had enough Red Devils to put him to sleep for at least six hours.”

  “Red Devils?”

  “Reds. Quinal barbitone. The drug they found in the glass recovered from the unit.”

  Fuck. Viv fought to keep her voice level. “Then what happened?”

  Tania turned her head and gazed into the distance. The dog was still barking. Branches rustled overhead. She spoke in a monotone, her nail frantically picking at threads. “Steven saw to everything. The master bedroom was downstairs. There was… there was a latched side window, next to the driveway. After I let him inside, I waited upstairs. Until it was…all over.”

  The story Doctor Haslett told Pastor Martin, swallowed by detectives and the public prosecution service had been an outright lie.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Viv made sure she saved the recording. The wind had dropped, branches whispered and even the dog had lapsed into silence.

  “Alice will be waiting… I could give you a lift back to the Europa?” Tania said.

  “Okay,” Viv said. She was still turning the new information over. It was sensational. But… Tania was a victim, wasn’t she? Had begged Viv not to tell anyone. What good would come from another prosecution? It would adversely affect Mitch, and Alice. Hadn’t the three of them suffered enough?

  Viv’s mother had walked out into the dark water, her mind unbalanced by pain meds. Not thinking straight, with no other thought than to take flight. To drift away. Viv had come to terms with what happened. Granted her mother absolution. Was this any different?

  Carruthers would want the story. Carmen would say, do the right thing…wasn’t there a moral duty to do the right thing? Pete might manage to find something to laugh about, although she’d noticed his quips often held an underlying truth. All the dead saints. Too many teardrops.

  Tania had taken off her scarf before getting behind the wheel. Mitch had inherited his mother’s cheekbones and prominent jawline, but her face was skeletal, her fingernails bitten to the quick “What are you going to do with what I’ve told you?” Tania said.

  “I need time to think about it,” Viv said.

  Tania pulled into a parking space. They walked side by side through the tiled concourse that connected the station car park to the street outside the hotel.

  “Journalists have an obligation to protect the identity of people who volunteer information, but there are some exceptions,” Viv said. “For example, whenever the evidence of a source could have a significant bearing on a criminal prosecution.”

  “But, the trial’s over,” Tania said, stopping and facing Viv for the first time since her confession. “I thought you were o
n our side? Steven has pleaded guilty. He’s dead. Isn’t that enough? I’m living a nightmare. I couldn’t face a trial, a prison sentence. What would the truth do to Mitch? This can’t get out. Please.”

  The composure Tania had regained on the drive back to the hotel threatened to crumble.

  “I won’t make a decision without speaking to you first,” Viv said. “That’s all I can promise.”

  Her stomach was rumbling. Viv hadn’t had anything, apart from a cup of black coffee, hours earlier, courtesy of the hotel’s complimentary facilities. She rang Pete. He sounded out of breath. “Are you okay?” she said.

  “How’re things? I’m outside, washing mud off my wheels. Are ye back at the Europa?”

  “Yes. What about some lunch? There’s been a major development. I’d like to know what you think.”

  “Oh…great. Just one small problem. I forgot about my little sister’s birthday. Ma’s doing a big spread and we’re all expected at home. You’d be more than welcome. She’ll have cooked enough to feed the five thousand,” he said with a laugh.

  “I couldn’t impose,” Viv said.

  “I’d love you to meet everyone.”

  “Maybe some other time. I’ll message Carmen. I need to find out how she’s doing anyway.”

  “Okay. What’s the big news?” Pete asked.

  “I’d rather tell you in person. Do you know when Mitch is due in front of the Magistrate?”

  “No. The court lists haven’t been published, but it will only be a short hearing… I could go if you like. I’ve made an appointment tomorrow afternoon, to meet the property agent who manages the units at Woodside Park. I’m hoping I can persuade him to put me in touch with Karol. Make the most of your time off. I should be back by six. If you’re still at the hotel I could come over, or, if you like, come around to my place. I’ve been to the shops and can offer you a wider selection of food and beverages Or if you’re still at Carmen’s, we can catch up tomorrow…”

  “I’ll keep you posted. Whenever I find out exactly what’s happening,” Viv said.

  She sat by the window in the Piano Lounge and listened to her conversation with Tania through earphones, transcribing key points onto her notepad. The disclosure was just as astonishing the second time around. She ordered a chicken and chorizo panini. Texted Carmen. Watched traffic. Considered her next move.

  Would she pen the story of a mother and grandmother, bitter and alone… an outraged son, turned assassin… a wife and mother who harboured a terrible secret? Or was she ready to become part of the conspiracy? To join those who knew something but said nothing, join the silent majority who looked the other way, the people who buried the truth.

  There was no legal requirement to report a crime, but it was seen as a moral duty. The journalists’ code stated that information should be honestly conveyed, without distortion. That correspondents should resist threats or inducement. Did that include personal entreaty? Carruthers always said their remit was to do good, and not to do bad. Was that the same thing? And bad for who? The general public? The individual?

  Viv tried to put herself in Mitch’s shoes. Would she want to know what really happened, or would she be happier to live in blissful ignorance? He and Alice were, most likely, basking in the afterglow of a wrong put right, of honour restored, of a job well done. The truth would consume them. For the two of them, the truth would not be good.

  Less than seven days ago, Viv would have done the same thing as Mitch, given half the chance. Society might rail against Mitch and Tania’s deception for a while, condemn and denounce them, but society soon forgot about the broken people. Forgot about the victims.

  Carmen replied to her text. ‘Cuds is going back in a few hours’ time,’ she wrote. ‘I’m feeling much better and I don’t want to let him down, although I’m not to drink any alcohol. Come for dinner and stay over, why don’t you? I could do with the company. Tomorrow we can sort the car out and retrieve your shopping. Cuds has transport laid on for tomorrow night, so I won’t need to drive, and there’s accommodation booked overnight for all of us in Derry.’

  Viv had contemplated contacting Detective Kozlowski, sounding out her professional opinion. Asking, for a friend. But could Kozlowski be trusted? Viv had the impression that the detective would pin her colours to the same mast as Carmen. Endorse the principle of public duty, legally and morally. The need to let the authorities decide. For individuals not to play God.

  Viv began to trace the outline of the story.

  Later, she decided she needed to take something for Carmen, by way of apology. It was only six weeks until Christmas. St George’s Market was near Central Station. It was crammed with arts, crafts and food. Another fine example of Belfast’s stubborn Victorian architecture that had survived the Blitz, as well as decades of terrorist bombing.

  The indoor market thronged and hummed with a thousand conversations. Viv shouldered her overnight bag and lost herself among the rows of colourful stalls. Patterned knitwear. Prints and paintings, jewellery and artisan food. Bought a frosted carrot cake, a fragrant candle and a pair of red, leather gloves. Browsed a vinyl record stall, although she didn’t have a turntable. It was something she had always thought about buying for her spartan London flat. She remembered a portable record player her parents had, that had been a great source of entertainment. The album titles brought back memories of school discos in the early eighties. Awkward moments. Cans of cheap cider. Throwing up behind the bike sheds.

  The stallholder was playing ‘Love Me Do’. There was a display of framed music memorabilia on sale. One had the lyrics of a Strangler’s song printed in thick red and black, newspaper-style font. WHATEVER HAPPENED TO THE HEROES, it said, several times over. And, LEON TROTSKY GOT AN ICE PICK THAT MADE HIS EARS BURN.” She bought it for Pete. She was sure he’d see the funny side.

  Viv and Carmen spent the evening reminiscing, and, after dinner, they ate the carrot cake. Carmen asked if they could not discuss the accident, and Viv was grateful for a few hours respite from the investigation.

  In the morning she watched sparrows and pink-chested chaffinches fighting over breadcrumbs, while Carmen lined up a selection of cereal and made toast. At nine o’clock, Viv contacted Newtownabbey police station, to find out where Carmen’s hatchback had been towed and if it was roadworthy while Carmen got on the phone to her insurer.

  Pete sent a message to let Viv know that Mitch’s appearance was on the Magistrates list. Court was in session at ten thirty. But, Pete said, it was a long charge sheet, with over fifty-two other cases.

  During the morning, Carmen’s hatchback was moved from the roadside recovery depot to a body repair shop and Viv took a taxi there and back to retrieve her shopping. After lunch, Carmen had an appointment at the hairdresser. Viv spent two hours revising the feature she’d drafted in the Piano Lounge, before sending the document to Carruthers and signing off.

  Victim’s Family Destroyed by Charming North Antrim Psychopath.

  An exclusive by Viv Hunter, Senior Investigative Reporter.

  Libera News Agency. London.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  On the coach, Carmen introduced Viv to Lisa, Genevieve and Martin. Lisa asked the driver to put some music on. Martin, who was married to the Location Manager, regaled them with stories about his twenty years as a paramedic.

  Carmen looked stunning in her red dress that had a lace bodice, complimenting her curvaceous figure. Her brown curls had been gathered into a chic chignon that sat low at the nape of her neck. The bruise on her forehead was carefully concealed under a thick layer of foundation. Viv’s taupe coloured wrap-dress had survived the crash and proved to be crease resistant. It had a low neckline and cap-sleeves. The colour, somewhere between dark brown and grey, suited her skin tone. Carmen said it made her look very feminine. Car
men had loaned Viv a wide, brown leather belt that accentuated the waistline.

  The driver stopped at their hotel, on the outskirts of Derry, where they were booked overnight, and their bags were deposited before the party was dropped off outside the Guildhall. Viv was swept through the entrance and up a grand staircase, Carmen looping her arm. The sound of music and voices drowned out the click of their heels on the wooden steps.

  Lead-lined windows towered above the landing their vibrant colours muted by the night sky. Three sets of double-doors, framed by salmon-pink, sandstone surrounds, led into the main hall. Waiters were stationed on either side, serving champagne. Cuds was waiting by the centre door. He waved them over and leaned down to kiss Carmen.

  “You look fantastic, both of you,” he said, throwing Viv an appraising look. “There are some people I need Carmen to meet. Dinner will be at seven thirty.”

  Viv followed the other guests into the hall. Circular tables, draped in white linen, were dotted in front of the stage. Above the raised platform, rich, dark wood panels surrounded the majestic organ console. Duck-egg blue and gold-leaf pan pipes stretched in ordered ranks to the ceiling and on either side. She gazed at the stained-glass windows, stretching along the far side of the hall below the vaulted ceiling, remembering the last time she had been there. The windows told the history of the city from the early twentieth century. The place smelled of polished wood, of things from a bygone age. It was the same sense of timelessness she had felt in the Crown Bar, inside the bronze-etched windows.

  Viv had been seven years old when her mother brought her to the Guildhall watch a Gilbert and Sullivan opera, “The Pirates of Penzance”. They’d sat at the front of the upper gallery. Viv remembered being frightened by the loud music and the colourful characters. Soldiers in their bright red tunics and gold brush epaulettes. Garish pirates with dark ringed eyes and black wigs under three-pointed hats. Her mother had tried to explain the comic and sentimental plot. The irony, Viv later realised, was that the Major-General was caught in a lie while the band of Pirates were unmasked as noblemen and married the major’s daughters. Good and bad, it seemed, were never easily distinguished. The moral always seemed to be the same, don’t judge by appearances.